


Hard Crime

by pilindiel



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fluff, Goofy - Freeform, M/M, dumb boys doing dumb things, gratuitous mention of twin peaks?, shitty beer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11825130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: “No,” I say as his face falls, “I'm marathoning Twin Peaks.”I not-so-subtly try to check him out as I tilt back my empty can, trying to get the last few dregs of the embarrassingly weak amber liquid as I let my eyes wander. He's wearing his typical Letterman jacket, dark brown and ratty, over what look like the remnants of the dilapidated half of a business suit, his tie mussed up and shirt un-tucked. I hate to say it's sexy but damn, it's pretty sexy.I hate that he can pull it off. Asshole.Prompt: “You have to tell me if were committing a felony before we do it. Not that that’s going to stop us, but at least I’ll have all the facts.”





	Hard Crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nakiriknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakiriknife/gifts).



Someone normal would say watching reruns of _**Twin Peaks**_ is a crime, that season two isn't worth anyone's time especially when you look at the context of the show and what it stood for and how it fell into terrible relationship love-triangle nonsense.

Those people can go fuck themselves. James is a goddamn treasure and I will not have his name sullied while I am slathered in pizza sauce and beer.

_Fuck you_.

The bass line of _**Twin Peaks**_ ' intro resonates in my bones, like a thrumming heartbeat, and I chug back the last dregs of a Coors Light, the most delicious piss-water alcohol in existence. The blue snow-capped tip of the can is still sky blue, an indication of just how deliciously toxic and cold the damn thing is, and I swear I can taste the Rocky's as I throw my head back.

The knock at my front door doesn't make me jump like it would a normal person – I'm dulled, tired, and used to things much worse.

I have half a mind to just yell that the damn thing is unlocked, but I begrudgingly remember I left the deadbolt locked when I wandered home last night and sigh. When I stand, discarded crumbs fall from the front of my shirt and tumble to the already crusty floor and the carpet sticks to my feet, sticky from unnameable substances and spills, and I trudge to the front door with my empty can in hand.

If I keep my face sullen, maybe whoever it is will knock it the hell off and leave me the fuck alone.

I make sure the unlocking of the door is loud – sharp and shitty just like the lock itself – and muster up my most tired stare.

I'm met with the sexiest smirk I've ever seen, plastered against pale skin and dried lips. He's leaning against the door-frame in a pathetic attempt to seduce me and I make sure to make my stare even more pathetically tired.

“No,” I say as his face falls, “I'm marathoning _**Twin Peaks**_.”

I not-so-subtly try to check him out as I tilt back my empty can, trying to get the last few dregs of the embarrassingly weak amber liquid as I let my eyes wander. He's wearing his typical Letterman jacket, dark brown and ratty, over what look like the remnants of the dilapidated half of a business suit, his tie mussed up and shirt un-tucked. I hate to say it's sexy but damn, it's _**pretty**_ sexy.

I hate that he can pull it off. Asshole.

He quaffs his hair with his hand, sighing with a stupidly endearing smile that he knows makes me lose my resolve, and I roll my eyes.

“Fine, Jason,” I admit, brushing some crumbs off my shirt, “Let me get dressed.”

Things with Jason are simple, easy. Yeah, we get in trouble and I've gotten a few too many bruises from his hair-brained ideas, but the adrenaline rush, the burst of laughter from his chest and that damn **_smile_**.

Fuck if that ain't worth it.

I toddle into the bedroom and leave the door open, let him saunter his way in like I know he wants to.

“You have to tell me if were committing a felony before we do it,” I call over my shoulder as I toss my shirt off and slip into familiar leather and spandex, “Not that that’s going to stop us, but at least I’ll have all the facts.”

I hear his laughter from the living room, deep and meaningful, and I hate how my stomach flips.

_**Fuck that guy**_ , I think as a smile twitches at the corner of my lips.

* * *

 

Blüdhaven isn't the hell-hole Gotham is even though they're so sickeningly close. It still has that nasty smog that Gotham does – the putrid heaviness in the air like darkness is the constant state of the city and the sun doesn't touch its skyscrapers – but it's brighter, like the city lights aren't blocked out by any lingering hatred of the city itself.

It's _**alive**_ , and the lights dance across the water like reflections of stars we can't see as we go across the bridge on Jason's motorcycle.

I have no shame in wrapping my arms around his waist as he zigs and zags through familiar streets, my head still buzzing with discount beer and the thrumming heartbeat of a metropolitan skyline.

Jason takes a sharp turn and I jolt, holding onto him tighter as he barks a laugh into his helmet that I feel reverberate through the leather around his torso.

“Asshole,” I mutter, even though it makes me smile.

Jason parallel parks his bike, turning off the hum of the engine, and when I hop off I can't help but rub at the soreness on my lower back.

How old are we now? I've stopped counting birthdays at this point and I know Jason has too, but I can't help but feel my age on nights like this. My muscles stick more, my joints creak, and I know I'll feel like shit in the morning regardless of what we end up doing.

Jason turns to smirk at me, leaning against his bike, and I try to bite back my grin. He's trying so hard to look young, to be impetuous and uncaring like we used to be, but there's crows feet pricking at the corners of his eyes and his dimples are lined deeper, the making of wrinkles running up his cheeks.

I'm still in love with him, though. I wonder how long it's been but I can't manage to pinpoint the day. It's like he's always been there, a constant warmth at my side, and I try not to dwell on it as I cross my arms over my chest.

“Well? What are we doing here?” I ask over the thumping bass of the club next to us. The street is pretty empty of pedestrians for a Friday night even though cars are parked by happy little parking meters lining the street and I have to remind myself that normal people usually leave their cars and enjoy the city at night.

Of course, we aren't normal, and we never really have been.

“Hold out your hand,” Jason commands, keeping me in the dark.

I roll my eyes so heavily it's almost audible, but I stroll over to him, holding my hand out palm up.

Immediately Jason's hand opens and I can see his glee even through the mask covering his face. Hundreds of quarters fall into my waiting fingers, filling the air with a metallic tang, and I must be making a pretty impressive face because Jason is laughing, loud and boisterous.

Several of the coins from his hand tumble off of mine down onto the pavement, tinkling like rain.

“I fucking hate you,” I mutter. I know what he _**wants**_ me to do; that stupid, childlike grin is unmistakable, and I want to smack it off his _**dumb**_ , handsome face. I still stand there though. I want him to say it.

“This is stupid,” I grouse after a moment, fingers curling around the quarters in my palm.

“What?” Jason teases, strolling over to one of the parking meters and reaching into his utility belt to pull out another sphere of incriminating metal. He slides it into one of the hungry, waiting mouths of the parking meter and I hear it clang all the way to the bottom - the nasty, sickening sound of capitalism at its finest.

“You know this is illegal, right?” I say, petulant.

Jason looks over his shoulder when it marks another twenty minutes on the timer, and he's stupidly pleased. “It's not like it's a _**felony**_.”

I fall in love all over again as I laugh and I can't stop how wide my smile gets. Jason matches me and we spend hours on our task, lost to the hum of the city and the music pumping from crowded bars, and I can't think of a better way to spend a Friday night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally never written for them before but goddammit Mari is a treasure to me and she deserves everything so here is more goddamn fanfiction for her because she GODDAMN DESERVES IT
> 
> I know jack shit about this ship. Sorry if it's ooc.
> 
> As always, Rhetoricfemme provided me with the stupid crimes. Bless her.
> 
> Also I listened to Paris by The Chainsmokers for this and I hope the vibe came across


End file.
